The humming bird of Kashmiri and Urdu poetry is gone. Yes, Faiyaz Dilbar is no more. I saw him resting in eternal peace at SMHS, Srinagar, late Sunday evening. I tried to talk, joke with him, as usual, he was unresponsive and then I came to know that he has played his last game – unfriended us. Shocking!
Social media is flooded with tributes, people paying respects and expressing condolence. They spell his name as Fayaz Dilbar. But he had told me, years back, it is Faiyaz Dilbar, and I am using that.
Friendly and soft like dew. Blunt as a hammer. Faiyaz Dilbar, born as Qazi Faiyaz, was an institution in himself. He was loved, adored, respected and also hated. Hated, because he would never accept mediocracy when it came to literature, art and journalism.
He would tell me that my son, Arif, was a better poet than me. He once told a common friend that her father had a stony face, not fit for television, but that, luck was on his side. This bluntness was within the close circle but not confined to it alone. Invite him to a function. Ask him to speak. If he notices some sort of mediocracy, you would be left red-faced. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He was loved, respected and adored because he would appreciate every piece of art and literature, no matter who the creator was, only if it was up to the mark. He would engage with young, enthusiastic writers, poets, film makers; encourage them; guide them and even walk an extra mile to help them.
He loved Kashmir, he loved Kashmiris, he loved everything that had to do something with Kashmir.
He was typical downtown walla despite spending most of his life outside Kashmir. Nader Munji (fried lotus stem), Hukh Gadda (dry fish), Farri (smoked fish) Harissa (a sort of Haleem but purely mutton based with a pinch of rice), journalism in 1980’s, Maqbool Hussain, Coffee House, Mirwaiz Manzil, Mujahid Manzil, Kani Jung (stone pelting), Gauga (Bakshi’s followers), Sher (Sheikh Abdullah’s followers), Bakre (Mirwaiz Farooq’s followers), Rusul Mir, Amin Kamil, Rehman Rahi – he was passionate about all these things.
He was a great story teller but more than that, he was a good listener, what most of the story tellers are not. And that was the difference. And that was why my children felt more comfortable in his company than mine. When he recited his poems, it didn’t feel like recitation but revelation. Yes, it was his tongue, but words sounded supper natural. His Kashmiri and Urdu vocabulary was ultimate.
Versatility – Evening he would be interviewing great Amrita Pritam and, in the day, he would be spending time with a friend, auto driver, in some dhaba in Srinagar. That was Faiyaz Dilbar. He had no “intellectual hang-over”, because whatever he created literary, was rooted to the ground and thus he was very much present on the ground.
Street vendors, auto ricksha drivers, bus conductors, salesmen on shops, top bureaucrats, politicians, journalists, film makers, poets – he had friends all over. He would have a lavish breakfast with me at The Suriya and take me for a champ to some old Delhi roadside dhaba. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
Here I am not going to talk about his contribution to Kashmiri and Urdu literature. Let that be done by those who are affiliated with these subjects and, I am sure, if there still is some honesty left behind, the concerned would come forward and acknowledge Dilbar’s contribution – though he never was keen for such an acknowledgment as he wrote because he wanted to write; he composed, because he wanted to compose; he told stories because he wanted to tell those, not for any acknowledgment. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He was a friend of friends. He would go to any extent to bail his friends out of crisis. See what he did for me when my second son Basharat wanted to marry a Delhi girl.
When I came to know about Basharat’s interest, question was how to approach the family of his fiancé. And, there was Faiyaz Dilbar. I talked to him, told him that he has to help but with a rider – girl’s extended family should not know that it is a love marriage. He went there. Spoke to the family. Played it so well that the same evening he called me saying Mubarak (congratulation). That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
And in the event, he became so close to my daughter-in-law’s father that he got the first invitation card when his son and other two daughters were getting married. We attended the function together, me and Faiyaz, and after sometime, my daughter-in-law’s father, Nafees Sahab left for heavenly abode (rest in eternal peace). We went there together for condolence. Whenever we would talk on phone or meet, Faiyaz would surely talk about Nafees Sahab that what a noble soul he was. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He was lucky that he had a wife, Nasreen Mohsin, who too was from the creative field – an artist, par excellence. The beauty was that he was in love with her art and she in love with his poetry and stories. They could understand each other so well and thus acknowledge each other’s contribution. They were very open and frank but there were certain things where Faiyaz was scared of Nasreen. Smoking was one of the things. He knew, it was bad for him and Nasreen hated it, but he would love to puff a few cigarettes, once a while. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
I came to know him through a dear friend, Manzoor Anjum, in nineties. It was love at first sight. We so jelled together that Anjum was, sort of heart broken. Now they would have fights, and I would mediate. I would call them separately and they would abuse each other so vulgarly, but I wouldn’t surrender, and finally they would be having lunch or coffee somewhere without inviting me. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
Few years back, I was in Delhi with my two friends, Jeelani and Javed. Faiyaz invited us for dinner and overnight stay at his place. He had cooked fish biryani, himself, Nasreen admitted that, and it was out of this world. Our intention was to just have dinner but we had lunch too, to finish every bit of it. It was poetry in oven. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He was a perfectionist, uncompromising, idealistic, realistic too, brave, brazen, honest, and above all a great human being. He was deeply rooted in Kashmir. His nostalgia sometimes irritated me, and I would say so and he would smilingly retort back, “Agar tumhara mazi tum ko acha nahi lagta, badal dou (if your past doesn’t suit you, change it). That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He was a poet, great poet, both in Kashmiri and Urdu, He was a novelist, great novelist. He was a playwriter, great playwriter, he was a short story writer, a great short story writer, in fact, he was everything that literature stands for.
But for me he was just Faiyaz. We would drink cups of tea, stay overnight at my Jawahar Nagar residence, eat Hakh and Rajmah, discuss poetry, literature; have arguments, agree, disagree and at the end he would be judgmental – “Bunty (my son Arif) chu chani khuta assal shayer (Bunty is a better poet than you). That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
He would always joke, “I will write obituary of Manzoor Anjum and yours too and I promise those would be master pieces”. Anjum Sahib would yell, ‘baha lekhai obituary”, (I will write your obituary). Trust me, would have been happy had Faiyaz Dilbar written my obituary, it would have been great because he knew me inside out and no other person here can write about me what Faiyaz knew. He was a soul mate.
As poet; Faiyaz was par excellence. I could quote hundreds of his verses but will not. Let the readers go and find these. Let us live our legacy. As story teller; he was exceptional but again why should I talk about his Gudiya Hanse Na or other films, let readers explore.
As short story writer; I translated his Meema Sheema into English and some other short stories but when he wanted to translate his Kashmiri Ghazal, I suggested Showkat Shafi, a journalist and teacher par excellence. Showkat Sb was so generous to do the needful. And once Showkat did it, Faiyaz called me; “Ye gassi khandeen aasun (he may have some rich legacy)”.
As already stated, in this article, I am not going to talk about Faiyaz’s literary excellence. It is just personnel. I talk about his person. The person he was. He had no qualms with anybody here. He respected everyone in journalism – from Maqbool Hussain to Imdad Saqi, from Khawaja Sonaullah to Sofi Ghulam Muhammad from Fayaz Kaloo to Yousuf Jameel, from Manzoor Anjum to me (Bashir Manzar) and to Bashir Ahmad Bashir.
He loved us, he respected us, he adored us and, at times, he hated us. That was Faiyaz Dilbar.
